


The Mirror Crack'd

by Femme (femmequixotic), noeon (noe)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Agatha Christie - Freeform, Glompfest 2010, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme, https://archiveofourown.org/users/noe/pseuds/noeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Cumbrian manor house full of paying guests, a dead Ministry official, and an active murder investigation interrupt the quiet of Draco and Harry's life together. Rather fatally. Written for our beloved Bubba for Glompfest 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mirror Crack'd

“There’s a dead Ministry official sprawled across the sitting room floor,” I announce before collapsing into a chair at the kitchen table. “This _can’t_ be good for bookings.”

Harry just looks at me, his hair mussed and his glasses askew. Without speaking he pushes a mug of tea across the table. The thick pottery warms my hands as I pick it up and take a deep sip. He’s laced the Darjeeling with firewhisky and Merlin knows I need something to calm my nerves right now.

Two house elves bustle around us, preparing breakfast. Mother sent them last year, a sign of her approval of both my relationship with Harry and our mad scheme to escape from London and, more importantly, our ex-wives. Since the divorce I’ve become quite envious of my friends whose divorces were acrimonious, I must say; there’s something to be said for not being on speaking terms with one’s former spouse, particularly if said former spouse has decided to become surprisingly good friends with the former spouse of one’s current paramour on the flimsy excuse of _the children’s sake, darling_. Honestly, Astoria can be so _impossible_ at times and, if I can be frank, the amount she and Ginevra imbibe in their weekly gossip sessions has nothing to do with the children.

The escape plan had seemed clever enough at the time. Harry and I were both tiring of our Ministry positions—in Harry’s case, it was the increasing pressure being put on him to stand for Minister in the next election, in mine, the constant annoyance of being seen as _Mr Harry Potter_ by acquaintances and colleagues alike. So, of course, we decided to flee the confines of town and set up house in a small Cumbrian manor.

And the house has the added benefit of being entirely across the country from Father, which is always a boon in my opinion. No matter how I complain, Mother will insist on occasional family dinners together, and I still find it impossible to ascertain whether Father would rather to kill Harry or shag him. There are moments I strongly suspect the latter, which tends to destroy my appetite on such occasions, much less my mood.

Harry assures me I’m mad, but he hasn’t had to spend his entire life with Lucius bloody Malfoy. I love my father, but he’s almost seventy now and a few Bludgers shy of a match.

As for the paying guests, well, we certainly don’t need the money, but I’ve discovered over the past five years that a bored Harry is a dangerous Harry, so we had decided during the summer months to open the house. The plan had worked brilliantly thus far, keeping Harry cheerfully humming about the house, making certain his guests were looked after while I had our wing to myself with enough solitude to think and enough space to spread my potions research about without worrying about Harry tidying it out of boredom.

Now, however, it appears that one of our seven guests had the audacity to _expire_. And on my grandmother’s Axminister, to add insult to injury.

“Tippy will never get the blood out,” I murmur into my tea.

Harry rubs his face with his hands, pushing his glasses up his forehead. “Ron and the other Aurors will be here soon.”

“Lovely.” I set my mug down. “That’s exactly what we need—“

The door to the kitchen slams against the wall, and Lily Potter bursts in, red braids swinging. My heart resumes beating furiously after the surprise. I wonder briefly whether I should give up on tea and find the whisky flask, but I’ve no desire to face the Auror force reeking of spirits. I’m tired and upset enough as it is.

“Slow down,” Harry says with a sigh, and my stepdaughter stops short, giving us both an apologetic look.

“Sorry, Dad.” Lily drops into the chair between us. The ragged denim skirt she’s wearing reveals far too much of her long legs for my comfort. She crosses them, completely aware of my disapproval. I try not to frown and fail. Sixteen is not old enough to look like a tart in my opinion. The last time I’d complained to Pansy about Lily’s clothes, however, she had just laughed and laughed and informed me that was an argument I was destined to lose.

“Uncle Ron firecalled. He’ll be here in five minutes, he said.” Lily reaches for a slice of toast and nearly has her fingers rapped by Minky, who glares at her.

“Them is for the guests, Miss Lily Potter,” the small house-elf says sternly. “You is eating from the other plate with the elderberry jam Mr Malfoy sir likes.”

Lily rolls her eyes and takes a toast soldier from the correct plate.

“Where’s Scorpius?” Harry asks.

Both the children had decided to spend their summer hols here with us: Scorpius because he can’t abide his mother’s latest lover and Lily because she’s tired of her brothers’ constant teasing. Scorpius, however, she can dominate quite well. There are times I despair of my son.

“Still in there with the body,” Lily says through a mouthful of bread and jam. “He’s trying to keep Orla Quirke out of the room.”

Harry and I exchange a glance. Orla’s taken Rita Skeeter’s place as the most poisonous pen at the _Prophet._ She’d booked for a weekend in order to write what Harry’d been certain was to be a scathing review—I’d maintained that we were more likely to see a passive-aggressive ode to how wonderful Harry is and what a cock I am. Orla knows what side her bread is buttered on, after all. But of course, with these new circumstances, it will be far worse than a simple review.

“I’ll go check on her,” Harry says, pushing his chair back. He squeezes my arm as he passes, a gesture I know he means to be encouraging.

It isn’t.

***

Ronald Weasley gives me a weary look. “I’m not trying to make this difficult, Malfoy.”

I cross my arms and glare at him. “Do you _really_ want me to account for my whereabouts for the entirety of last night?”

“It’s a formality.” Weasley glances over at the two other Aurors, each of whom is taking down the statements of our guests. He rubs his thumb over his pad of parchment. “I do need a statement from you.”

“Very well,” I snap. I’m quite certain Harry hadn’t been forced into this _formality_. “I last saw Marcus as Harry and I were going up to bed last night. We passed in the hallway, and I wished him a good night. He grunted, as is—“ I catch myself with a curious pang of regret. “--as _was_ his wont.”

Weasley’s quill scratches across the parchment, leaving behind a near illegible trail of ink. I have a fleeting sense of pity for the underling who will be required to transcribe his worm-scrawl notes. “Right. And after?”

“I went to bed,” I reply stiffly. “With Harry of course. And no, I didn’t leave our bedroom until half six this morning, but I’m quite certain I could provide you with a detailed accounting of those hours if you so require, beginning with Harry’s great delight in giving me this.” I jerk the collar of my robe to one side, revealing the red love bite I know Harry left on my pale throat the night before.

Weasley blanches, and the quill falters. “Christ, no.”

He looks a bit ill. Dear Ronald’s still not quite come to terms with the idea that his former brother-in-law enjoys shagging me senseless on a nightly basis, a fact which amuses his sister immensely. I must say, it surprises me that I’ve come to regard Ginevra as an ally. Then again, she’s the only person in the world who understands exactly how exasperatingly thick Harry Potter can be at times.

“Are we done then?” I ask, making a moue of distaste. Through the open door to the sitting room, I see the forensic Aurors crouching over Marcus Flint’s lifeless body as they wrap it in a black canvas shroud. There’s a pool of blood congealing on the wooden floor, a small trickle of which has been smeared by a boot.

Weasley shrugs, following my gaze. “For now.” He looks around the foyer. All seven of our guests are downstairs in varying states of dress. The Hobdays--Violetta and Hilliard--stand next to the fireplace, heads bent together. Fuzzy pink slippers peek out beneath Violetta's robe. Mr and Mrs Cauldwell are sitting blankly on the stairs, wrapped in dressing gowns, and Harry’s bent over them, his hand on Ariadne’s shoulder. I see her look up at him with a wan smile and nod at whatever he’s saying. An Auror is questioning Dennis Creevey as he tucks in his shirt, and Orla Quirke is peering over his shoulder, obviously curious—whether about his answers or his open trousers I can’t tell.

Weasley sighs and strides over to Miss Quirke, plucking her quill from her fingertips. “Don’t even try, Orla,” he says as she protests. The quill snaps in his hand, a loud crack that causes everyone to start and look his way.

The vengeful expression on Orla’s face answers my suspicions about her intent and I step forward. “Perhaps we should encourage people who might interfere with the investigation to leave?” I ask, but Weasley shakes his head at me.

“Of course you can’t, dear boy,” Arabella Figg pipes up from the bench next to the pendulum clock from where she’d been sitting out of the way. Her knitting needles clack softly together, and she doesn’t bother to look up from her work, her gaze fixed determinedly on the soft grey cashmere scarf forming beneath her fingers. “We’re all suspects, I’d daresay, and I'd think the Aurors would rather see us all stay put for a bit.” She finishes the row and glances briefly at Weasley. “Correct?”

Weasley nods. “Afraid so.” He looks over to Harry apologetically. “You know it’s standard procedure. Anti-Apparition wards and all.”

Harry‘s eyes flit towards me. I’m quite aware I’ve an outraged expression on my face. “We’ll make do, Ron.”

“We most certainly will not,” I snap at him. “You’re former Head Auror; do you really think—“

Harry stops me with a firm hand on my arm. “We will.”

As Ron walks to the Cauldwells, I pull Harry aside. “There is a dead body in my sitting room,” I hiss at him, eyes narrowed. “One that _happens_ to belong to someone I knew quite well in school, and the Aurors are intimating that _someone_ in this room may have actually killed the brute. If you think for one moment I’m staying here—or allowing you or Scorpius or Lily, for God’s sake, to do so—then you, Harry Potter, are a complete and utter _nitwit._ ” My hiss must carry further than I meant it to, and I realise all eyes in the room are now on me. My cheeks warm, but I lift my chin. “I mean that,” I say clearly. Harry’s green eyes are level but he’s got a worry-wrinkle to the side of his mouth that gives him away.

Weasley clears his throat. “I’ll leave McNaughton,” he says, pointedly addressing Harry. “Floo’ll be closed for travel, but cleared for communication, if you need.”

“Thanks,” Harry says calmly.

“Least I can do.” Weasley looks at me then. “Which doesn’t mean you can clog it with complaints, Malfoy.”

“Fuck off.” I cross my arms over my chest in high dudgeon. This day is turning out to be a complete horror.

***

“You knew him, dear?” Arabella Figg sits next to me on the sofa. I’ve retreated into the library in an obviously futile attempt to avoid human company. She reeks of kneazles--I’m fairly certain I’d seen a kitten’s head peeking out of her pocket last night at dinner, but Harry’d just told me to leave her be. The dingy old bat had been kind to him in his childhood, which in Harry’s mind means he has to be solicitous of her for the remainder of her life.

I’ll never understand Gryffindors. Really.

I close my book, unable to repress a huff of annoyance. “Yes. Why?”

The knitting’s out again. “Hold this, if you will,” she says, and I find a thick ball of cashmere wool in my hand. She wraps the yarn around her needle. “I do hope he wasn’t a terrible close friend.”

“A school acquaintance.” I’m oddly mesmerised by the movement of her needles. Mother had never knit. She’d claimed needlepoint was far more suitable. “That’s all.”

“Ah, I see.” Arabella drops her knitting to rummage in her bag. She pulls out a handful of boiled sweets and offers me one. When I shake my head, she unwraps an aniseseed ball and pops it in her mouth. The scent of licorice hangs heavy in the air. “Bit of bad blood between you?”

I snort. “Don’t be ridiculous. Marcus wasn’t intelligent enough for me to be concerned with.” I frown at her. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason, love,” she says cheerfully. The sweet is tucked in her cheek; I can see her suck on it.

I realise I’m still clutching Pensées-Profondes's _A Study into the Possibility of Reversing the Actual and Metaphysical Effects of Natural Death, with Particular Regard to the Reintegration of Essence and Matter_ and belately move to set it aside. "Are you suggesting that _I_ had something to do with his…" I hesitate. "…passing?"

"Not at all." Arabella brushes a clump of what looks suspiciously like kneazle hair from her sweater and reaches for the knitting needles. "You're not the type to do something that rash, I'd say, Mr Malfoy." She glances around the library. "Not with it cosy here for you and young Harry."

It's been years since anyone's referred to either of us as young. I eye her suspiciously. "Well, just so we're clear, I didn't."

"Never said you did." She frowns and counts her stitches. "I just asked if you got on with Mr Flint."

I lean back against the sofa cushions and trail my finger along the thick leather spine of the book as I search for the right words. "I didn't dislike Marcus," I say after a moment. "He could be a bit thuggish when he wanted, but if you knew how to distract him, he wasn't unbearable."

Arabella nods. The ball of wool in my hand spins slightly as she tugs at the yarn. It's soft against my palm. "And no one else here knew him?"

"Harry did," I say automatically. "We both went to school with him. He was a brute on the Quidditch pitch, which worked in my favour, I have to say, as his teammate. I think the Cauldwells, Orla, and Creevey were too far behind us to know him, and the Hobdays are obviously too old. But if you're suggesting that Harry killed him…"

She gives me a pointed look, the yarn slipping through her fingers. "I've known Harry Potter most of his life, Mr Malfoy. If he had done such a thing, I'd be certain he'd lost his mind."

"At least you're not suggesting I've corrupted him," I mutter grimly.

"Rather the opposite, I'd say." Arabella sets her knitting down. "Or at least from what he says about you."

The creak of the door keeps me from answering. Scorpius's head pokes through, his pale blond hair—which is so like mine and my father's it startles me sometimes--tumbling into his eyes. "Father, Harry wants you," he says quietly, with an apologetic glance at Arabella. "The Aurors are back."

I hand the ball of wool back to Mrs. Figg and stand up, brushing a few fibers off of my trousers. "Tell him I'll be there momentarily."

He nods and disappears.

As I leave the room, I stop with my hand on the doorknob and glance back at Arabella. My eyes narrow at her pleasant and seemingly distracted mien. "How do I know you didn't kill Marcus?"

She gives me a wide, warm smile. "You don't, duckie," she says and she tucks her wool away into an enormous quilted bag.

I can't help but feel extraordinarily unsettled.

***

"You want to do _what_?" Hobday asks, looking terribly offended. I can't say that I blame him.

Weasley eyes him shrewdly. "Any particular reason you don't want us to examine your wand, Hilliard?"

We're gathered in the sitting room, all of us. Harry stands by the window, his hands in his pockets. It's started to rain, and the view of the lush green garden is blurred by rivulets running down the leaded panes.

"Don't be ridiculous," Hobday says. His mustache trembles. "It’s just dashed inconvenient--" He breaks off as his wife murmurs something in his ear. Violetta's always been the intelligent one of that pair.

"We'll do the testing here." Weasley nods at one of his Aurors who steps forward, spreading a pristine roll of bleached muslin across the closed top of the piano. "As Towler here explains it to me, it won't hurt your wand: we'll just be casting an analytical spell on each one that should show us the last casts."

Creevey looks interested. "How far back will you go?"

"Only twenty-four hours," Towler says, pulling on white gloves. "That should more than cover the time of death."

"And you're looking for?" Cauldwell asks.

Before Weasley or Towler can answer, Arabella pipes up from the corner. "Sectumsempra, I'd say, based on the amount of blood and the pattern of wounds."

We all look at her.

"I read extensively," she says primly.

"Right." Weasley appears discomfited, and, Squib or not, Arabella Figg rises significantly in my estimation. "Well. Yes. Both the Healers' reports and the magical scan suggest that was the spell used."

Owen Cauldwell's eyes widen. "Sectumsempra?" His voice rises, and Ariadne touches his arm, murmuring _Your heart, darling,_ in concern.

I can't hide my flinch at the spell, and Harry's eyes flick towards me, a small furrow appearing between his brows. It's been nearly twenty-seven years now since that horrible day in the water-soaked boys' loo, but the scars are still visible on my skin. The first time Harry had taken my shirt off, he'd been aghast at the web of raised white tissue tangled across my chest. It'd been too late for the dittany by the time Severus had reached the infirmary. Pomfrey had only been able to heal the smaller slashes. The deep ones had scarred over, much to my chagrin.

"Wands, please," Towler says impersonally, holding out one gloved hand to Creevey who passes his wand over eagerly. _Gryffindors_ , I think and I roll my eyes, but I hand mine over as well when Towler gestures in my direction.

When he asks Scorpius and Lily, Harry objects. "Ron, really," he says, moving away from the window at last to stand by me. "They're children." That earns him a pair of outraged looks from our offspring.

"I'm seventeen," Scorpius protests.

"Not for another three weeks," I say sharply.

Scorpius glares at me. "I'm not a _child_ ," he mutters. "And Harry cast it on you when he was younger than me."

Heads turn to look at both of us in surprise, and I could gladly kill my truculent son.

"The point is," Harry says, meeting Weasley's gaze evenly, "that they're both under seventeen at the moment, and if they'd cast a spell like Sectumsempra outside of Hogwarts it would have triggered the Trace. Which means there would be a record on file with the Improper Use of Magic Office and a notification delivered to us--neither of which exists."

Weasley glances over at the children and sighs heavily. "Of course," he says. "But we've a murder here, Harry, and you know as well as I that if you were still in charge and I came back without all the wands tested..." He trails off and turns back to us. "I won't look like I'm biased. The sprogs get examined too."

Towler takes Scorpius and Lily's wands as they protest in outrage, more against Ron’s designation than the process. I reach for Harry's hand, curling my fingers around his. His body is rigid with tension.

"It won’t harm them," I murmur, but he cuts me off with a gruff _I know._

Towler lays the wands on the bleached muslin, examining each with a practiced eye. He casts a spell to reveal fingerprints, capturing the black marks that rise up on the polished wood with Spellotape and fixing them onto small white cards. A quill hovering next to him labels each card with the name of the wand's owner.

As he begins the analysis of my wand, I stiffen. I'm not a fool: it doesn't take Weasley's sideways glance as he steps closer to Towler and murmurs something inaudible for me to realise I'm their top suspect. I’m the only Slytherin--even my son was Sorted bloody Ravenclaw--the only one who'd known Marcus in any depth, the only one who still has the Mark burned into the pale flesh of his left arm.

They won't find anything. Of that I’m certain. Still, I’m unaccountably nervous. I suppose it's because until Harry came into my life I'd no reason to trust Aurors, not after what they'd done at the close of the War: rounding my family up, threatening us all with life in Azkaban, freezing our Gringotts accounts. I have no wish to go through the nightmare of those trials again.

My father had spent three years in Azkaban and his hair had turned pure white. Mother and I were reprieved, but only with Harry's testimony. I'd resented him for years for that fact. Sometimes, when the clouds are grey and heavy and my mood is darker and thick and I'm sitting in the library alone with only half a bottle of whisky left, I still do.

Harry's hand grips mine. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. I know he won't let them take me. He never would. Harry trusts me and would do anything to protect me. He's a fool, but a fool I love.

Weasley looks disappointed when the analysis reveals an array of standard spells--cleansing, tidying, one small Diffindo. He turns to me.

"The conium in the back garden was dying," I say. "I cut it back. A Severing Charm wouldn't cause that sort of damage. You know it as well as I do."

He nods brusquely to Towler. "He's right. Much as I hate to admit it. Go on to the next."

I lean against Harry, our shoulders pressing together. It's the only sign of relief I'll show, but I’m grateful to have him to lean on.

Towler goes through the other wands with much the same result. The Aurors’ expressions grow grimmer.

"It could have been an outside perpetrator," I hear Weasley whisper to McNaughton at one point.

Towler picks up the last wand. Harry's. "Just a formality, sir," he says apologetically to his former boss.

Harry shrugs. "Go on."

It takes a bit more effort for Towler to coax the spells from Harry's wand. It's stronger than his own, and by the time the first Toasting Charm seeps out, sweat is drenching Towler's forehead, dampening the edges of his shaggy brown fringe.

The spells slip out slowly and with effort. A few cooking charms, then cleansing ones. The Shaving Spell is weak and I glance at Harry. There's a faint shadow of stubble across his jaw. He's wont to do it too quickly, without looking in the mirror like a normal person. I suppose I should be glad he didn't draw blood on this one, as he has in the past.

When the lubrication spell spins out of the wand, my cheeks warm. I had forgotten--and by Harry's sudden tensing, he had as well. It feels like an eternity since he slid inside me with a laugh. I can't believe it was just last night.

And then I realise what's next and I'm speechless for a moment, wishing the Anti-Apparition wards were not in place. When the Binding Charm reveals itself, my face is hot and I've pulled away from Harry, my arms crossed tightly over my chest.

"Oh, I really didn't need to know that," Lily whispers, and her uncle snorts.

"Agreed."

Harry gives them both a sharp look, and they fall silent. Scorpius refuses to meet my eye. His face is nearly as red as my own must be, the flush on his neck seeping beneath his robe. I don't dare look around the room, but I'm quite certain I can feel Arabella Figg's sharp gaze on me.

Harry's wand shudders and jumps into the air, hovering a few inches over the piano for a moment before falling back onto the muslin.

"Wandless magic," Towler says. He looks at Harry. "An Accio?"

Harry nods. "I'd evidently dropped my wand." His cheeks pink. "I was...distracted." He looks at me, his green eyes dark, and I can't help the shiver that goes through me. Even surrounded by Aurors and under investigation, I can still feel the bedroom door against my back, the softness of his hair between my fingers as he'd knelt on the floor and sucked me until I shuddered into his mouth.

Weasley inhales sharply when the next spell slides out.

The quill records the spell neatly on the card labelled 'Harry Potter': it's a Sectumsempra.

We all fall silent, and Harry jerks to attention beside me. "I didn't," he says and he looks at Weasley with wide eyes. "Ron, you know--"

The Aurors are murmuring uneasily to each other and staring at the words. Weasley chews his bottom lip and looks back at the wand. "You're certain?" he asks Towler.

"It's not a false positive," Towler says worriedly. He checks the recording charm, replaying it to watch the spell emerge again, and then examines the quill recording the spells for tampering. "That's Sectumsempra, I'm afraid."

Weasley turns back to Harry, his face a map of anguish. "Harry, I..."

They stare at each other, shoulders tight, fists clenched.

"If you didn't do it," Weasley says quietly, so quietly I can barely hear him, "Veritaserum will show that. We'll run tests for Imperius too." He glances at me. "He did have access to your wand, you know."

I try not to cough at the double entendre. I'm too annoyed and I don't think Ron is taking the piss. In fact, I'm sure he's dead serious.

Harry's eyes flick my way briefly. "No."

I don't know whether to be pleased or annoyed that Harry thinks me beyond reproach. I step forward. "I'll go too. I'll take the tests."

" Draco, no," Harry says, too quickly, and it's then I realise he's trying to shield me. I look at him in horror. He actually thinks I might have done it.

"Harry." I grab his elbow. "I didn't--"

He licks his bottom lip. "I know. It's fine." He doesn't sound overly convinced, and Weasley's jaw clenches as he regards us both.

"Take them both," he tells the Aurors, and as firm hands grab my shoulders, pulling me back, Harry looks away from me.

My stomach twists.

I don't know what to say.

***

Veritaserum tastes like dragon piss.

Not that I've a baseline to measure that, mind, so I suppose I should say I assume it tastes like dragon piss. Nevertheless, it's foul and loathsome, and the witch administering it to me displays far too much pleasure in my disgust.

"Nasty, it is," she says, taking the seat across from me.

"I'd forgotten." It's been years since the Aurors had last forced it upon me, over and over, in a desperate effort to make their case against me stick. It would have worked too, if it hadn't been for Harry. He'd do the same this time, I know, if I needed him to. He'd destroy his whole damned reputation for me.

And yet, that knowledge doesn't ease the sting of his suspicion.

The holding cell is damp and reeks of mildew. We're in the lower levels of the Ministry, just above the Wizengamot. The white and black tile on the walls does nothing to warm the room, and I'm quite certain the faceless wizards who look after the cells cast Cooling Charms on them regularly, like would-be Dementors.

"What's your name?" the witch asks. I've forgotten hers. Hester, perhaps, or Hestia. Maybe even Helen. I'm not certain it matters.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy." I can feel the Veritaserum seeping through me, overcoming my natural reticence.

Hester-Hestia-Helen nods. The quill next to her records my answer on a scroll of creamy parchment. "Date of birth?"

"The fifth of June, 1980."

"Parents?"

"Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and Narcissa Eleanor Black Malfoy."

"Spouse?"

"Ex-spouse Astoria Ruth Greengrass. Until the twelfth of November, 2017. I began a relationship with Harry James Potter on the twenty-third of August, 2018. We entered into a civil partnership on the first of July, 2020."

Hester-Hestia-Helen checks my facts against the data in the thick file she has in front of her. "Children?"

"Biologically one son, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy." I flex my fingertips against the tabletop. "Through civil partnership, two stepsons, James Sirius Potter and Albus Severus Potter, and one stepdaughter, Lily Luna Potter. James hates me, Albus tolerates me, and Lily adores me. Scorpius is a mystery to me. Next?"

She looks satisfied. "Right then. I think that should get us started." She shuffles papers and clears her throat.

I tense and draw in a deep breath. My heart pounds. I don't dare close my eyes, even for a moment. I'm too afraid of going back into the horror of twenty-five years ago, back to my throat closing with terror, back to knowing that they wanted to destroy me and my entire family, to make us pay for something of limitless cost.

Hester-Hestia-Helen meets my gaze evenly. "On the night that spans the thirteenth and fourteenth of June, 2023, did you kill Marcus Antonius Flint?"

"No." I daren't look away from her.

"On the night that spans the thirteenth and fourteenth of June, 2023, did you cast Sectumsempra on Marcus Antonius Flint?"

"No."

"Have you ever cast Sectumsempra on another living being, human or otherwise?"

My tongue feels thick in my mouth. I struggle for a moment against the answer, then give in. "Yes."

Hester-Hestia-Helen sits up, interested. "At what time in your life did you cast Sectumsempra?"

"During the Second Wizarding War." My jaw clenches and every crisp word is an effort. "You should have the details in your files. I believe they're quite exhaustive as to my wartime activities."

"Have you ever killed another living being, human or otherwise, with Sectumsempra?"

I swallow and my throat feels raw. My heart thuds and my head suddenly aches. "Yes, I have. "Multiple small animals. Rats. Kneazles. My pet Crup. A--" I fight back the swell of emotion. "A Muggle girl." I can still feel the horror that had overtaken me that day. She'd been younger than me, and she'd begged me to not hurt her. Even after all these years, on some nights I wake up with her screams echoing in my dreams. I meet Hester-Hestia-Helen's gaze. "The Dark Lord insisted we all learn it. My Aunt Bellatrix was a thorough teacher."

Hester-Hestia-Helen's face is pale. "I'm sorry," she says softly.

"I am too," I whisper.

I look away.

***

They release me two hours later.

"Where's Harry?" I ask McNaughton as he takes my arm to Apparate me back to Cumbria.

He doesn't look at me. "Still under questioning," he says.

A swell of irritation rises in my chest. "He didn't do it. All of you know that. For Christ's sake, he's Harry bloody Potter, Saviour of the bloody Wizarding World. Why on earth would he kill Marcus Flint of all people? It's preposterous--" My heated words are lost in the swirl of Side-Along Apparation.

We land on the crushed shell path outside the house. It's still raining in Cumbria, and McNaughton doesn't bother with an Impervius as we trudge up the path. The house is clearly still warded against Apparation. A stern-faced Auror unwards the door for us at McNaughton's sharp rap.

"He could have done it," McNaughton says finally as we step across the threshold, "to protect you."

I snort and pull my wet cloak from my shoulders. "I answered that question under Veritaserum."

McNaughton just looks at me. "You love him, don't you?"

"Yes. Much to my regret." I hang my cloak on one of the porcelain pegs lining the hallway and stride off.

Harry doesn't come back for dinner. It's a quiet affair, all of the house's inhabitants gathered around the long table in the dining room. The Aurors watch us as we sip our soup, listening to everything we say.

Arabella Figg sits next to me. "You're quite all right, dear?" she asks.

For once I can't help feeling she means the question. I'm oddly affected by her sincerity.

"Yes, thank you."

She pats my hand. "It's not him," she murmurs. "We both know that. And it's not you either." She glances around the table. "Which only leaves a few others."

I reach for my water. The Aurors, beasts that they are, have denied us wine with our meals. Orla Quirke's watching me closely from across the table. She's itching for an exclusive story, I can tell. Only the Aurors have kept her from contacting her editor.

"Make use of that one," Arabella says softly, and I glance over at her.

"If you weren't a Squib," I say over the rim of my glass, "I'd be certain you were Slytherin."

"Come from a long line of them, lovie," she says, sitting back so Minky can take her empty soup bowl away and replace it with a plate loaded with roast pork and potatoes. We may be captives for now, and without wine, but I've instructed the house elves to feed us well. There's no sense in losing one's standards. Arabella cuts into her pork. "Slytherins and Hufflepuffs and the occasional Gryffindor, God help us all."

"I'm beginning to like you, Arabella." I set my glass down. "Against my better judgment."

She beams at me.

***

I stop Orla Quirke outside the sitting room. An Auror eyes us from his post near the foyer fireplace.

"You want an exclusive," I say, and her eyes light up behind her thick black glasses.

She smiles, a slow, easy curve of her scarlet lips. "Of course I do. What journo caught in something like this wouldn't?"

I lead her down the hall towards the kitchens. "If you write what I tell you, I'll help you get it to the _Prophet_."

"How?" She brushes a ginger curl back behind one ear. For a moment she looks like Ginevra in the shadows. It nearly makes me like her until the flickering light from a floating sconce shines on her glasses and I remember what a parasite she is.

I push open the kitchen door. "Minky," I say, "there's something I need you to do."

***

I can't sleep without Harry in our bed. After hours of trying, I give up and get out of bed.

I pull back one of the curtains and look down onto the garden below. There's an Auror walking through the raised beds, moonlight shining on his long blond hair as he paces back and forth. The clouds have broken slightly, though they still threaten rain. I watch as another, taller Auror walks up to him, face hidden by a hood. Their heads bend together; after a moment, they move into the shadows.

A knock at my door causes me to drop my hand, and the room darkens again, the only light coming from a lamp next to the bed. "Come in."

Lily slips into the room, wrapped in a white dressing gown, her hair falling in loose red waves around her face. Scorpius follows her, closing the door behind him.

"We couldn't sleep," Lily says quietly. "So we wondered..." She trails off, twisting the belt of her dressing gown around her fingers.

I nod towards the sofa in front of the hearth. A few orange embers glow against the black iron firescreen. "Sit."

She curls up against one arm; I take the other. Scorpius drops to the floor next to Lily, and she prods him with one pale foot. We're all three silent until Lily sighs.

"Dad wouldn't ever hurt anyone," she says, staring into the hearth. She bites her thumbnail. "Not unless it was necessary to protect us."

"He didn't kill Marcus," I say, aware that my voice is overly harsh. At Lily's pale, stricken face, my shoulders slump. "I'm sorry. You must be frightened as well."

She nods.

"We all know he didn't do it," Scorpius says. He pats Lily's ankle awkwardly. "The question's just how did someone use his wand to do it."

"Imperius," Lily says immediately.

I shake my head. "They'll test him for that."

"Someone nicked it then." Scorpius turns slightly, looking up at us. His glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them up again. The gesture reminds me of Harry, and my heart aches. I'm far more worried than I'll let on to the children. I wonder if Ginevra knows yet. Surely Weasley's told her. James will probably blame me for this, as he always does. I can only hope Albus and his mother talk some sense into him.

"Who?" Lily starts in on another fingernail, biting it to the nub.

Scorpius shrugs. He looks up at me, as if I know the answer. I hate to disappoint him. After a moment, he slides closer to me and touches my knee. "Are you all right?"

"I've been better," I admit. My hand falls to the top of his head and I smooth his hair back gently from his forehead. I can't believe he's nearly of age. It seems like only yesterday the Healers were putting him into my arms, a squawling bundle of flailing fists and red cheeks.

Lily watches us. I hold an arm out and she crawls across the sofa to lay her head on my chest. "It'll be okay," she whispers. "Right?"

"Yes," I lie to her. "Everything will be okay."

Outside the rain begins to fall again.

***

Astoria's owl arrives as I sit down for breakfast.

McNaughton hands it to me after it's been opened. He shrugs at my scowl. "Standard procedure," he says. "She's talked to Ginny Potter." He looks at me. "Weird that your wives keep in touch, isn't it? "

"Sod off," I say absently, even though I agree with him. I skim through the note. It seems Ginevra firecalled Astoria last night after being called to see Harry in Auror custody. I'm terribly annoyed that he sent for her, but I can't fault him for staying friends with his ex-wife when I've done the same. Blaise, who's on his third wife, tells me not to complain.

Scorpius sits next to me at the table. "Mummy?" he asks.

I nod and fold the parchment. "She's going to see Harry today."

"You mean she's going to throw a strop at the Ministry."

"Something along those lines." I take the cup of Keemun he pours me. "She's taking your Grandmother Narcissa with her."

Scorpius winces. "He'll be out by noon."

"If your grandmother has anything to say about it, sooner." I sip my tea. The others filter in slowly, sleepily taking plates from the sideboard and filling them with eggs and bacon and kippers and toast before they sit down at the table. I seem not to have been the only one who had a rough night.

I can't bear the thought of being surrounded by these people without a break. I don't trust any of them--not even Arabella, if I'm honest, and she's the least likely of the whole lot to have caused this mess.

I stand, touching Scorpius's shoulder. "I should check the kitchens."

He nods in understanding. "I'll watch things here and call you if we need you."

I take my teacup with me, my hands curled around the warm china. As I step into the hallway, I see the Cauldwells in a doorway, speaking in hushed, tense voices. Owen looks my way, and he tries to suppress the anger that's twisted his face.

"Malfoy," he says. His wife doesn't meet my gaze. I suppose I can't blame her. Creevey's been looking askance at me since my return as well. None of them believe I'm innocent, that much I can tell.

I nod curtly and walk past them. Ariadne's hand tightens on her husband's arm. I can almost feel my Mark burn.

My face is hot when I push the kitchen door open. McNaughton looks up from the _Prophet_. Harry's face is splashed across the front page, and the story next to it has Orla's byline.

"Ron's going to be narked."

I shrug and drop into the chair next to him. "They'll release Harry by the end of the day." I hope.

"Probably." McNaughton folds the paper and sets it aside. "You realise everyone's going to assume it was you. Easy access to Harry's wand and all."

I sip my tea again, not even mustering the energy to be outraged. The tea's hot and milky with just the barest touch of sweetness. "Former Death Eater, you mean." At McNaughton's nod, I set my teacup down and press my fist to my cheek, leaning an elbow on the tabletop. I'm silent for a moment, and then I sigh. "I'm used to suspicion. You should have read the letters to the editor when our relationship became public."

McNaughton gives me a faint smile. "I think my mother wrote one of those. Suggested you'd put him under Imperius."

"Do you think I have?"

"No." McNaughton studies me for a long moment. "And I don't think either one of you killed Flint." He hesitates. "Had some shady dealings, that one did."

I'm not surprised at the information, though I'm a bit surprised it's being shared. "Not unusual for the Flints."

Minky bustles in and McNaughton takes the plate of bacon she hands him. He folds a rasher of bacon in a slice of bread and bites into it, chewing slowly. "He hid them behind a legitimate import-export business."

I frown. "He worked for the Ministry, though."

"Kept his hand in the family business." McNaughton drains his tea. "Ron thinks he was bringing in some Dark artefacts through Dolohov connections."

I look at him. "Why are you telling me this?"

He shrugs and stands up, stuffing the last bite of bread and bacon into his mouth. "You want to find out who did it? Maybe you should ask some of your guests about their business."

I watch him as he walks out, the door swinging shut behind him. When I glance down at the _Prophet_ , Harry looks up at me, his eyes solemn and steady behind his wire-frame glasses.

I touch a fingertip to his mouth. "Bastard," I whisper, and Harry smiles up at me.

***

Arabella finds me in the first floor hall some time later. The rain has finally stopped, and golden sunlight is filtering wetly through the dissipating clouds.

"You've been hiding today," she says with a smile. There's mud on her boots, and I hope the house elves find the clods that have fallen off before they're ground into the carpet.

"I'm not feeling particularly social." I pause on the top step of the stairs, my hand on the banister. "You, on the other hand..."

She smiles at me and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepen. "People like talking to me," she says simply.

"Of course." I quirk an eyebrow at her. "And you let them."

Arabella tilts her head to one side. "I'm not entirely certain I know what you're implying."

I'm not either. I shake my head.

"The children have shown me the gardens," she says. "I hope you don't mind."

"Why should I?"

She pats my hand. Her fingers are knobby and speckled with liver spots. "It's your house, duckie. We're merely guests." Arabella hesitates. She turns a leaf between her fingertips. “Been doing a bit of gardening this morning, have you?”

I shake my head. “No. Why?”

Before she can answer, the screams from the floor above sends us both running up the stairs, Arabella nipping close at my heels for a woman of her age.

The door to the Cauldwells' room is half-open, and I push in. Ariadne is on the floor, kneeling over her husband. Tears are streaming down her cheeks as she pushes at his chest. Her hair's wet and hangs loose over her shoulders. A long, pale leg peeks through the slit of her red silk dressing gown.

"I just came out," she says, her voice catching. "I was in the bath, and he was lying here--" Her fingers twist in his robe. "Owen..."

I push her away and kneel over Cauldwell myself. "Call McNaughton up here," I snap at Arabella, and she nods, her mouth a thin, tight line as she leaves.

Ariadne's sobbing next to me. "Please," she says. "His heart--it's been bad since he was a baby. The Healers..."

I resist the urge to slap her. Instead I focus on her husband. If only I had my wand back. I know a few Healing charms, but none of them are wandless. Under my breath I curse the Aurors for keeping them.

I hear boots in the hallway, and McNaughton's in the doorway, another Auror at behind him. I shake my head at McNaughton, and he swears as he drops down next to me. His hand presses against my back lightly, his fingers warm through the light wool of my robe. It disturbs me that I find an Auror's touch comforting.

"Get her out of here," he says, and I pull Ariadne to her feet and lead her from the room, her face streaked with tears.

"Owen," she says and she twists in my grasp, reaching for him. "Owen--"

I pull her back. "Come with me. You need tea." It's idiotic, I know, but it's the only thing I can think of at the moment. It's how Mother had calmed me when she'd told me Grandfather Abraxas had died. Strong tea, milky and very sweet. Every time I drink it now, I think of him.

Falling silent, Ariadne lets me lead her downstairs.

***

The Aurors take the body out of the house wrapped in a sheet that had come from my bedroom in the Manor.

I sit on the stairs, watching them numbly. I feel odd. Adrift. It's been so long since I've watched someone die, so long since I've seen a lifeless body. Two now, in as many days. It used to be this common. I can still remember the ones the Dark Lord killed in front of me. Charity Burbage, for one. I barely knew her, other than seeing her around Hogwarts and seated at the Head Table. Sometimes I'd watched her lean towards Snape, laughing as he said something to her.

The look on his face the night the Dark Lord had killed her haunts me. I close my eyes. I can almost hear the heavy thud of her body hitting the table, rattling the dishes, followed by Aunt Bella's high-pitched laugh and the quiet rustle of Nagini as she slid across the table to swallow Professor Burbage whole.

I shudder, and my eyes fly open. I want Harry here. Desperately. He'd know what to do. He'd just touch my hand and I'd feel better--or at least able to hide my horror better.

Now I can't.

Dennis Creevey sits next to me. He stares over at the Aurors, then lights a cigarette. I don't have it in me to tell him to put it out. After a moment, he hands it to me.

I take a slow drag and breathe the smoke out in a long grey stream.

"Perhaps," Creevey says, breaking our silence, "he was the one. Perhaps his heart couldn't take it."

I roll the cigarette between my fingertips. Ash drifts down to the plush stair runner beneath my boots. The elves will be irate and we've a strict no-smoking rule indoors, but I couldn't care less at the moment.

"Do you really think that?" I ask finally.

Creevey shrugs and takes the cigarette back. "I hope so." He glances at me. "Suspecting everyone around me's beginning to wear on my nerves."

I can still see the blood stains on the sitting room floor. Tippy has yet to clean the remnants from the wood--the Aurors won't let her near them until Weasley allows it.

"Who do you think it is if not Cauldwell?" I can't stop myself from asking. "I'm assuming I'm at the top of your list."

Creevey shoots me an apologetic look. "Close to it. Sorry."

"At least you're honest." I watch as Arabella wanders past, Scorpius at her side. They're lost in conversation.

"That one," Creevey says, gesturing with the cigarette, "is right up there as well."

I narrow my eyes at him. "My son?"

"No." Creevey takes another drag off the cigarette, holding the smoke in before huffing it out through his nostrils. "The old baggage. I don't trust her. She's asking everyone questions, poking and prying like it'll make her look innocent." He drops the cigarette. Minky's there before it hits the floor, catching it in her palm as she glares at Creevey. "Can't say it soothes my worries."

I can't exactly argue with him on that point. "She's a Squib."

"There are ways around that." Creevey pushes himself up. "Hell of a holiday, Malfoy," he says with a faint smile, and he shoves his hands in his pockets and ambles down the hall.

I can't help but agree. I just wish it weren't in my house.

***

"I like her," Lily says stubbornly when I ask her about Arabella Figg.

We're in the conservatory together, attempting to escape the others. Ariadne's taken over the library, and Violetta Hobday is in there with her, supposedly comforting her. I have no damned idea what that means for women, though the last time I walked past I'd heard muffled crying which had made me turn the other direction sharpish.

I'm not comfortable with my own emotions, much less anyone else's.

"Like whom?" Orla Quirke's head pops up over a group of Gloxinia.

I glare at her. "Get stuffed."

She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at me. "I wrote exactly what you told me to, Draco. Saviour of the Wizarding World injustly imprisoned by the Auror force. You owe me."

Lily looks between us, and I sigh. "Go inside," I tell her. She hesitates, but when my mouth tightens, she nods, tosses her long red hair, and leaves, only glancing back once at the door. I turn to Orla, who's watching Lily retreat with a predatory gleam in her eye. "I want one thing perfectly clear. The children are off limits. Do you understand? Not one damned thing about them goes in the

 _Prophet._ "

Orla looks back at me then. "I want something in return."

"What?"

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "An interview. No holds barred; I can ask anything I want."

My shoulders tense. "Of whom?"

"You, darling. Of course." The end of her bright pink quill brushes my cheek and I step back. "No one's ever managed to snag an interview with the infamous Draco Malfoy. Not an unguarded one at least." Orla plucks her quill from the air and pulls out a notebook. "I think this would be an _excellent_ time for you to grant me one." Her smile grows more feral. "Starting with those interesting rumours about you and the late Headmaster Snape?"

I clench my fists. "You're a bitch, Orla."

"I'm quite aware, darling." She drops into a wicker sofa. "Still, your choice. Your children or your past."

With a sigh, I sit next to her. "Fine. On one other condition." She looks at me curiously. "You have your editor find out who in this house besides me knew Marcus Flint."

Orla leans back against the sofa, her mouth pursed. "I'll pass a note to your house elf. After you tell me about you and Snape."

I don't have a choice. I hope Harry will understand.

***

I find Hilliard Hobday sharing a bottle of sherry with Arabella.

"Oh, good Lord," I say. "How'd you find that? I thought they'd barred us from the wine cellar."

Hobday taps the side of his nose. "I have my ways, lad."

Arabella snorts and pours me a glass. She hands it over. "He means he bribed the young one. What's his name? Nicholas?"

"Fine name, that, if a bit plain." Hobday crosses his legs, one ankle over his knee. "I've a nephew named Nicholas. Not an Auror though. Works for Gringotts in some bloody department or the other. Can't ever keep them straight. His mother would know."

I drain half my sherry in one swallow. Since their arrival both the Hobdays had driven me mad every time they'd opened their mouths. I suppose it's a good thing the Aurors haven't given us our wands back yet. I'd have hexed him and been taken in again. But at least I'd have seen Harry.

"Hilliard," Arabella says with a pointed look at me, "was just telling me about his business dealings."

I sit up straight. "Were you."

"Not mine, really." Hilliard looks pleased to be the focus of our attention. "I just dabble a bit here and there. Investments. I'm certain you understand, Malfoy."

I bite back a snort. Everyone knows the Hobdays get by on the sufferance of her parents. Hilliard likes to play at being rich but doesn't seem to want to earn the Galleons.

He shifts on the sofa and the cushions compress under his hefty frame. "But as I was saying to Arabella here, as I recall, I was at a meeting not more than a year ago--one of those terribly dull business-wizard luncheons the Ministry throws from time to time in the hopes of economic stimulation, all glad-handing and how-do-you-do and that sort of whatnot--and I'm quite certain I saw Flint and Cauldwell together. Heard something about the possibility of them working together on some project. Damned if I can remember what it was, though. Might have had a bit too much wine by that time--" He breaks off, looking down at his nearly empty sherry glass. "Arabella, dear, be a love and top me off--that's right, perfect." He lifts his glass to his mouth and sips. "Anyway, it just happened to jog my memory in the right spot, his dying like that. Knew I'd seen them both before somewhere."

"I see." I look at Arabella. She raises a shoulder. "So you think..."

"Well it's obvious, isn't it?" Hobday pulls out a handkerchief and dabs it at the corner of his mustache. "Must have been some sort of bad blood. Cauldwell killed Flint and his heart gave out. Creevey agrees."

"What do you think, Arabella?" I ask.

She twists her glass between her fingertips. The sherry sparkles in the late afternoon sunlight. It'd come from the Manor cellars. Father still doesn't know I 'liberated' a number of cases. It's my bloody inheritance and I don't see why I should wait until he dies.

Arabella sighs. "It doesn't _not_ make sense."

"But." Our eyes meet.

"It'd be terribly convenient, don't you think?" she asks softly.

As a matter of fact, I do think it convenient. Far too.

***

"Tell me you didn't do it," I say to Arabella.

Hobday has left us to go in search of his wife. I've suggested he follow the sound of sobbing.

"I'm a Squib, Mr Malfoy." Arabella puts her stockinged feet on the tufted ottoman. There's a hole in one striped sock that her smallest toe pokes through. "It's impossible for me to cast anything. Why on earth do you think the Aurors have ignored me in these proceedings?"

"Perhaps," I say darkly, "you're not actually a Squib."

Arabella laughs. "Look up the Ministry records, duckie. I'm quite certain you'll find them in order. And you can imagine young Weasley checked - he seems the industrious sort."

"You could have paid one of the others to do it," I say, but even I know how weak that theory sounds. I sigh and lean back against the sofa, my hair catching on the brocade upholstery. "Harry should have been back by now. They know it's not him. For God's sake, they let _me_ go. Why isn't he here?"

She looks at me kindly as she sips her sherry. "Do use your brain."

I turn my head, offended. I'd meant to get sympathy and I'd not expected this. "What?"

Arabella sets her glass on the side table. "They're obviously keeping him in the hopes that whoever's actually responsible will let up their guard and make a mistake. They've run out of time, you realise."

"What do you mean?" My curiosity piqued, I sit up.

"Dear God, what _did_ they teach your generation at Hogwarts?" Arabella sighs. "My sister had extensive lectures on wizarding law in her day."

"Sorry," I snap. "I was a bit too busy trying to keep a megalomaniac from massacring my entire family."

Arabella doesn't react to this. She pulls her knitting from her bag. "Once they took Harry into custody, they ought to have lifted all restrictions on the rest of us. They've no legal reason for keeping us. I would suspect that young Ronald knows this quite well and is gambling on the chance that none of us are familiar enough with the intricacies of the law to know that, as far as the Ministry is concerned, we could walk out the door right now with no repercussions."

I blink. "Do you mean I could toss all of them out on their ear? Aurors included?"

"Mmm." Arabella frowns at her knitting and rips a few stitches out. "I wouldn't if I were you." She glances up at me. "Your best chance of making certain Harry stays free is to let the Aurors flush out the murderer. Or murderers." She looks thoughtful, then shakes her head and twists the yarn around her finger. "Still mulling that one over."

"This isn't a pheasant hunt," I say wearily.

"Actually, dear," Arabella says, her needles clicking together, "it's just that if you think about it."

***

Weasley strides into the kitchen, his boots clomping loudly across the tile floor. Honestly, a herd of Hippogriffs could be quieter. I'm sure he's doing it to assert his authority and ruffle my feathers. It's working.

I look up from the menu Minky and I are reviewing. Dinner will be on the table in an hour; I don't care what sort of madness has overtaken my household. "Oh, for Merlin's sake. What do you want now? If you're here to drag me back to a holding cell you'll have to wait until dinner's finished. I'm not eating that cack you lot call food there."

McNaughton follows Weasley, closing the door behind them. Weasley sits across from me, spreads his knees, and leans back in the chair. His boots are filthy.

"Much as I'd like to throw you in one just to shut you up, Malfoy," he says, "that's not why I'm here."

"The roast lamb is fine, but careful on the rosemary this time." I hand the menu back to Minky. With a sideways glance at Weasley and a worried frown at his boots, she scurries back to the hob. I pour a cup of tea, pointedly not offering either of the Aurors one. "Well," I say finally, looking back at them. "What?"

Weasley and McNaughton exchange a glance.

"Cauldwell didn't have a heart attack," Weasley says bluntly. "There were traces of conium poisoning in his system."

"Faint ones." McNaughton sits. "But in combination with the potion he was taking for his heart issues..."

I look at them both. My heart races. "Two murders then. Connected." It's not as if I hadn't suspected it but to have it confirmed is unsettling.

McNaughton nods slowly. He looks over at Weasley. "We think you and your children should leave."

"Just for tonight," Weasley says. "We've arranged with your parents--"

"What?" My voice rises. "Do I look like a child?" I turn on Weasley. "Do _not_ even say what I know you're thinking."

Weasley closes his mouth and shrugs. "Told you," he says to McNaughton.

"Dra--"

I cut McNaughton off, furious at his presumption. "That's Malfoy to you. And I am not running scared from my home. Not while Harry's gone. The children, fine. Send them to my parents. But I'm staying." I push my chair back. "I'm not a coward, Weasley. Stop acting as if I am."

I slam the door behind me, hard enough to shift a photograph of Harry and me in Paris that hangs on the wall. I straighten it, running my fingers across Harry's cheek as my photographic self frowns at me and pulls Harry closer. I've always been a possessive bastard.

"Come home soon," I murmur, and I sigh.

When I look up, Ariadne's standing at the end of the hall, staring at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed with shadowy dark circles underneath; her blonde hair, usually perfectly coiffed, hangs loose and limp around her shoulders. She swallows, almost as if she wants to say something, then she turns away, ghosting up the stairs silently. I watch her and wonder what she might have said.

An Auror emerges from the shadows to follow her, with a curt nod at me.

I head for the back garden and pray for solitude.

***

The dirt is soft beneath my knees as I kneel to look at the _Conium maculatum_ , commonly known as poison hemlock. It's been cut back further since I'd trimmed it. Leaves and stems are scattered across the ground. I'd never have left the waste. One can't be too careful with hemlock, after all, and Lily would never forgive me if her kneazle Lulu had eaten anything.

Two scuffed boots appear next to my hand. I know who it is without looking up.

"It wasn't a heart attack," I say.

Arabella squats next to me, poking at the conium leaves with her knitting needle. "Yes."

We exchange a look. "I'm sending Scorpius and Lily to the Manor."

"Probably quite wise." Arabella's white hair curls from beneath a wildly flowered scarf. The breeze blows a stray lock into her eyes and she pushes it back. "And you?"

I shake my head. "I can't." At her questioning look, I sigh. "This is my house." I stand up, brushing the damp earth from my robe. "Mine and Harry's. I didn't leave the Manor when the Dark Lord took it over and that was far worse. I'll be damned if I'm going to run from whomever this idiot is."

Arabella bestows a wide smile on me. "Good." She holds out her arm and I take it. "We have a few things to discuss," she says with a satisfied nod, "you and I."

Things, I think, are about to get interesting.

I'm strangely exhilarated.

***

Dinner is quieter than usual with the children gone.

Scorpius and Lily had both protested vociferously when I informed them they'd be spending the night (or perhaps the next few days, although I made no mention of that likelihood) with Mother and Father. Lily insisted that Father's more likely to smother her in her sleep than is our unknown murderer, and while I admit she has a point, I'll never tell her that. Father still hasn't entirely come to terms with the fact that Harry and I share a bed, much less our lives. I do know that Scorpius will protect Lily, although I'm a bit concerned with how far he will take his duties, but I can't think about that now.

My fork clinks against my plate as I set it down. I miss them. Their constant prattling was at least distracting and even occasionally amusing.I meet Arabella's gaze. She smiles at me over her glass of water, and at her slight nod, I clear my throat.

Weasley looks my way. He's stayed for dinner, much to my dismay, and has eaten enough for three. Minky must be having fits in the kitchen. Weasley and McNaughton have had their heads together for most of the first two courses. "Have something to say?" he asks me, chin up.

"Actually," I say, resting my hand lightly on the table, "I do. But not to you." My gaze travels to Ariadne, who is poking listlessly at her lamb.

She glances up at the sudden silence as everyone turns to watch her. "What?"

The others look to me for an answer. I draw a deep breath. I'm about to infuriate Weasley. I rather think I'll enjoy it. "Why'd you kill your husband?" I ask softly.

No one speaks.

Ariadne blinks rapidly, her hand rising to her throat. For a moment, I panic, certain that I've bollocksed it up, that Arabella and I have this all wrong. We've gone over it, though, both of us, and it's the only thing that makes sense.

"What the hell are you doing, Malfoy?" Weasley asks, eyes bulging. McNaughton sits up straight next to him and looks at me.

I square my shoulders. "She killed Owen. You said it yourself--there was no way that was a heart attack. Someone had to have given him something."

"I say." Hobday frowns at me. "That's no way to speak to a grieving widow."

"Is she?" I don't take my eyes off Ariadne. A faint flush spreads across her cheeks. I can hear the scritch-scritch of Orla's quill against parchment. "Well, Ariadne?"

She stares down at her plate.

"You did it, didn't you?" I keep my voice soft. "You wouldn't even need your wand to brew up a tincture of hemlock. Just some hot water. Dip a cup into a particularly steaming bath..."

Ariadne's eyes flutter closed and she takes a ragged breath. "I--"

I push my chair back. "You can't say you didn't _mean_ to.” I walk towards her, my quiet steps the only sound in the perfectly still room. No one's even daring to breathe. “It's hard to poison someone by accident. Everyone knows you did it, Ariadne. The Aurors do. I do.” I stop next to her chair, squatting between her and Violetta. “I just want to know why.”

She twists her fingers in the ruffled neckline of her robe. Her wedding ring flashes gold. I touch it lightly.

“Malfoy,” Weasley says, warningly, and McNaugton stands up, reaching for his wand.

I ignore them. “You must have loved him at some point,” I whisper. She looks away, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. I can see the flutter of her pulse at her throat. “How can you hurt someone you love?” My voice cracks. I want Harry here next to me. Now.

“You don’t understand,” Ariadne says finally, tears welling in her eyes. “You can't.”

The room’s silent. McNaughton leans down and murmurs something in Weasley’s ear and he nods. I watch as McNaughton slips out of the room, his dark grey uniform disappearing into the shadows.

“Why can't we?” Arabella asks from Ariadne’s right. She places a hand on her arm. “Was he hurting you, dear?”

Ariadne shakes her head emphatically. “No. Owen would never—“ She clamps her lips shut, suddenly aware she’s just cut off an important avenue of legal defence. She twists her napkin between her fingers and her eyes dart, not across the table at Dennis Creevey as I’d suspected they would, but to the person next to her.

At Violetta Hobday.

“Oh, dear,” Violetta says lightly, setting her napkin aside, and before I can step back, her arm’s around my throat, her hand pressing a knife against my skin. She has my wrists caught behind my back with her other hand and she is surprisingly strong.

Orla cries out—in shock or horror or absolute delight, or perhaps all at once.

“I thought,” I snap at Arabella, “that you were certain she was sleeping with Creevey?”

She shrugs. “Wrong affair?”

There’s a sharp pain as Violetta presses the blade more firmly against my throat. I can feel the faint trickle of blood as the knife bites into my skin.

“Don’t move,” she says, and it takes a moment before I realise she’s speaking to Weasley, not me. He circles the table, wand fixed on the both of us. I can feel the tremor of Violetta’s hand against my neck.

“Weasley,” I choke out, “do _not_ be a damned fool, for the love of Merlin—“

The door slams open and McNaughton bursts in, followed by Towler. “Get down,” he shouts, and just as the Stunning Spells explode across us in a rush of red light, the knife slices through my throat, sharp, stinging, and wet. I can smell the tang of blood.

 _Harry_ , I hear Weasley say, and the last thing I see as I fall to the floor, stunned and bleeding, is McNaughton’s face, twisted in agony.

 _Stupid. Gryffindor,_ a voice in the back of my head says.

The world goes black.

***

My throat hurts when I swallow.

I open my eyes slowly. The light burns for a moment, and I hear the quiet murmur of voices. I try to turn my head, but it’s too painful, so instead I huff.

The voices stop.

“Draco.” Harry leans over me, his hands gentle on shoulders, lifting me carefully to slide a cushion beneath my head. He’s still wearing McNaughton’s uniform, but the Polyjuice has worn off.

I glare at him. “I hate you,” I croak. I feel too weak to be properly livid. “If I don’t die, you’re never getting sex again.”

Harry just grins at me and smoothes my hair back from my forehead. “The Healer says you’ll live.”

I snort and it hurts like the blazes. “What do Healers know?”

“Quite a lot, I’d say.” Arabella sits on the sofa next to me. She pats my leg. I turn my glare on her.

“And you. Utterly wrong. Complete red herring—“

She gives me an apologetic look. “Actually I suspected Mrs. Hobday. I just wasn’t certain whom the affair was with until you confronted Ariadne.” She beams. “Which you were brilliant at, I might add. Much better than I’d even hoped for.”

I look at Harry and whisper, “I hate her. Tell her I hate her.”

He laughs and kisses me gently. Bastard.

When he pulls back, I sigh and touch my throat. The skin still feels raw and new where the Healer has knitted it together. The foul-smelling dittany salve is slick and greasy beneath my fingertips. “So. You suspected.”

Harry hands me a mug of tea laced with firewhisky. I drink it as I listen to Arabella and suddenly my throat feels much less raw, on the inside at least.

“Hilliard is not as discreet than he imagines himself to be,” Arabella says with a small smile. “He’d mentioned his wife had made money recently with an importing business she’d invested in.”

“A business which belonged to Cauldwell. That much we figured out at Auror headquarters,” Weasley says from a chair across the room. “Although we were suspicious of Hobday, not his wife.”

It irritates me that I hadn’t noticed the Weasel sitting in the room. I decide not to waste my voice yelling at him. There will always be another opportunity.

Arabella sniffs. “Horribly short-sighted of you all. And perhaps misogynistic as well.”

“Horribly.” Harry’s mouth twitches. His fingertips are soft against my temple as they soothe and stroke. “Anyway, the two of them—“ At Arabella’s narrowed eyes, he backtracks. “The three of them, rather, being here at the same time suggested a business meeting of some sort.”

“And Flint?” I ask.

“Was involved in the business as a silent partner. And taking bribes,” Dennis Creevey answers from the doorway. The gang's really gathered for this one. “The Ministry’s been running an internal investigation on Flint for the past year.” He steps into the room, his dark green robe swirling around his ankles. “I was trying to get him to take a bribe before Violetta murdered him.”

I sit up, ignoring Harry’s protests. “You work for the Ministry?”

Creevey smiles. “Yes. Business Fraud.”

I look back to Arabella. “Stop reading those Muggle detective novels. You are absolute shit at deduction.”

Harry gives me an admonishing look, but Arabella just snorts. “I was a few steps ahead of you, duckie.”

I glare at her. “So Violetta murdered Flint over business she and Cauldwell were conducting with him.”

“He wanted a bigger share than they were willing to give,” Harry says. "And from what Ariadne's said--"

"Quite cooperative, that one," Weasley murmurs.

"Rather." Harry's smile is wry. "From what she's told us, it turns out Flint's family business was hemorrhaging money and he wanted a rather large chunk of Caudwell's in exchange for using his influence with the Ministry regulators."

Creevey snorts. “Stupid of them to try that in Harry Potter’s house.”

“Not really.” I shift so Harry can slide onto the sofa next to me. I lean back against his broad chest and feel peace that I haven't felt in days. “Who’d suspect something like that happening in front of the former Head Auror? It’s brilliant. I'd claim Marcus came up with it for House Pride, but I’m really not certain he had the intelligence.” I frown as I look at Harry. “How’d Violetta get your wand?”

Harry’s face reddens. “Ariadne took it.” He looks distinctly uncomfortable. “You remember when we were going to bed?”

I look at him blankly, furrowing my brow in an attempt to place what he's talking about. He coughs and rubs the back of his neck nervously.

“We were in the hall,” he says.

My eyes widen as I realise what, or rather, where he means. “Oh.” Yes. I quite remember that. He’d shoved me against the wall next to our bedroom door and spent a good five minutes with his tongue down my throat and his hand in my trousers. My cheeks are warm with recollection. “Right.”

Harry nods. “She nicked it out of my back pocket.”

I hadn’t even noticed anyone else in the hall and am momentarily horrified. “That could have been Lily or Scorpius walking by,” I hiss and I poke Harry in the chest. “Keep your hands off me in public.”

“That wouldn’t last a week,” Weasley says in an undertone.

He has a point.

Arabella coughs delicately. “In any case, suffice it to say, Ariadne took Harry’s wand from his pocket, then returned it afterwards—“

“Rolled it under the door, I think,” Harry says. “Remember how I had to Accio it when you wanted me to tie—“

I hush him with a pinch and a firm look. “And Cauldwell?”

“According to Ariadne,” Weasley says, “he discovered her with Violetta in the garden the next evening. They’d nicked Auror robes and sneaked out together—“ I suddenly remember the blond Auror, caught in moonlight. “—and he followed them. He’d already figured out Violetta had to be responsible for Flint’s death, but when he found her with her hand up his wife’s robes…” He shrugs.

“He threatened to tell,” I say. Harry nods. “Oh, for God’s sake. How utterly tawdry.”

We fall silent for a moment.

“I’m tired,” I say finally and Weasley pushes himself to his feet with a sigh. His red hair flops in his eyes.

“Well, I’ve paperwork to do.” He glances at Arabella and Creevey. “Going to need your statements too.”

Creevey nods and follows him out of the room.

Arabella stops at the door. “One more thing,” she says, and we look at her. “I don’t suppose either of you have realised that young Scorpius and dear Lily are absolutely arse over tit for each other, have you?”

“What?” Harry asks, in shock, as Arabella closes the door behind her, smiling.

He looks to me for confirmation and I nod. “Oh, bloody hell.”

My sentiments exactly. We may have solved a murder, but we're utterly doomed.

***

We finally have the house to ourselves. Scorpius and Lily are staying at the Manor one more day—it appears Lily has managed to charm my father, which both surprises me and doesn’t in the least. She’s her father’s daughter, after all, and Malfoys seem rather drawn to the Potter line, a fact I prefer not to think about too much, but rather put into practice.

Harry kisses my bare shoulder as we sprawl across our bed, naked and gasping.

“You,” I murmur, twisting to look up at Harry. His hair is damp with sweat and his skin is still flushed. His cock slips out of my arse; I’m quite certain I’m glued to our sheets with my spunk. “Polyjuice?

Really?”

Harry’s knuckles brush my cheek. “I wasn’t going to leave you alone.”

“I should tie you up and leave you in the cellar for a week,” I say, but he rolls me over and kisses me, his hand sliding along my side. When he pulls away, I’m breathless.

He touches my throat. The wound’s nearly gone. Another application of dittany tomorrow and it won’t even scar. Harry’s eyes darken. “I almost lost you. Again.”

We lie still, the shadows from the lamplight flickering across our bed. Harry’s thumb sweeps over my bottom lip. “I love you,” he says gruffly, and I smile.

So much for no sex ever again.

“Shut up, Potter, you speccy, lying git,” I whisper, and I pull him into a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> With much love to Bubba--we make no claims to Agatha Christie's greatness, but we've cheerfully stolen her title and her spirit, and we hope it brings you a smile or three.


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